Between black and white

I write better when I'm off my pills.

My mind is clear—

Clear like the blue sky,

Not a single cloud in sight.

But when I take them,

The fog rolls in.

I can barely see that sky anymore.

I wish I didn't have to take them.

Ever.

To be free of them.

But my wings are clipped.

I can't break free.

This body,

It's my cage.

No escape.

Not yet.

Only death.

Until then,

I'll endure this pain,

This suffering.

The illness that lives inside me.

Because there's no other option.

Except for death.

It sounds so tempting.

To end it all.

To find the peace my heart craves.

My heart begs me, every night.

To let go.

To be free from it all.

Like a wild animal,

Let loose.

To run.

Without a care.

But I'm afraid that's not the case.

My illness is a constant reminder.

Of what I can never have.

So tell me—

What do I do when therapy doesn't work?

When the pills fuck me over again and again?

Every morning,

I have a choice to make.

To feel it all—

And drown in it.

Or shut it off.

Just turn it down.

But for me,

There's no in-between.

No gray area.

Only black.

And white.

This burden,

It's mine to carry.

No one understands.

Except those who share the same illness.

And even then,

I feel empty.

Soulless.

I've tried everything

To fill this void.

But nothing works.

So maybe tomorrow,

I'll take my pills.

And slip back into nothingness.